The Kindest of Kisses
by Kira
Summary: 'There's no way, in one conversation, she'll be able to break through years of guilt.' She'll try, though. Olivia confronts Peter's guilt over his mother's death.


This is another one of those bits that started life as a ficlet written in post, but then it took a wild turn and turned into a story I really like. So here you go; more fic from me. I'm going to go do some science research for the conman!Peter fic I'm working on while you enjoy this.

Set after '6B,' in-general.

_There is love in your body but you can't hold it in  
>It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin<br>Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks  
>And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts<em>

"_the hardest of hearts," florence + the machine_

She finds him standing in the living room, a photo in his hand, head bowed.

And freezes, a bit uncomfortable.

For all the history she's shared, that's come out over the last three years, Olivia is still in the dark about most of Peter's past, the things that happened in-between those universe-altering events that now hang above them like anvils about to fall. A world about to crumble around them.

But she's always been brave - the one to go in first, to attack when others would run. Without the adrenalin of the chase, she feels weak, hollow almost, but steels up her reserve and walks up behind him to rest her chin on his shoulder.

"Hey," she breathes, voice low, soft, breath on his ear.

Peter lifts his head and turns, slightly; she can see the profile of his nose, the shape of his mouth. She lifts her head just a bit and they connect in a kiss, and she can taste whiskey on his lips that adds to a sweetness that always lingers. She drinks it up as best she can, relishing in the idea that he's _hers_, that she can always kiss him, can always taste his lips instead of staring at them across a crime scene or lab. It feels like she's breaking the rules, going against those guidelines she's let control her life, and it thrills her to be with someone like him.

After a moment, they move apart, Olivia now standing beside him. Peter wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close, so close she could crawl inside him and never come out.

"Hey," he says back, and leans forward a bit to put the picture back on the small end table beside a book on advanced organic chemistry, the pages open to a complex diagram he's scribbled notes around.

"You ready to go?" asks Olivia.

He nods, and when he lets go of her waist, a coldness lingers where his body was pressed against hers, and she craves that connection, the hollow feeling returning.

She smiles, though, _how lucky we are to be here, after all that's happened._

While Peter crosses the room and disappears into the hallway, Olivia picks up the photo, frame still a bit warm from where he held it, and takes in the photo. It's a candid shot, those in the picture unaware they're being watched; she recognizes Peter as a child and the long curls of his mother, the pair in the front yard of the house he grew up in — she recognizes it from that time, all those years ago, when he picked the lock and showed her where he hid from the world.

In the photo, they smile and laugh, eyes sparkling.

She wonders if she's ever really seen him so happy.

_Innocence __lost_, she thinks, a concept she knows too well.

Footsteps sound in the foyer, then track up behind her. A hand rests on the small of her back and she fills, once again, no longer a shell or a woman behind walls.

"I never asked," she starts, almost whispers, "if you saw her Over There. I saw mine. She was still alive, and lived in this house in the suburbs so she could be close to me. To _her_."

"I did," he answers in the same low tone, and she can hear sadness swallowing his words. "She made me breakfast. Not what my mother over here made, but what I remembered."

The answer surprises Olivia. She's had to deal with conflicting identities, with memories from both sides of the universe, living in the middle where they meet. Never since she's returned has Olivia considered the idea that Peter might know how she feels, may have the same mismatched set of memories swimming around, coming out at odd moments to trip him up. To remember two different mothers, two women who looked and sounded and smiled the same, to be so young - she puts down the picture and turns to wrap her arms around his neck.

"I'm sorry," she tells him. "I never thought about it, and I'm sorry about that."

"What are you talking about? You have _nothing_ to be sorry for."

"Peter," she says with a small smile. "I'm not some perfect woman who is never guilty of anything."

"Oh, I know," he smirks. "But you've been dealing with your own stuff; I get that."

"And now I'm saying I should have realized it sooner," she counters. "I know how it felt to see mine - "

"Olivia, don't," he interrupts, nearly speaking over her, eyes darkening.

" - and never thought about what it would be like to see yours," she finishes.

He pulls back just a bit, enough to break free of her arms; they flop to her sides, loosened from their embrace, and she watches him try to school his face into something agreeable. It comes off as blank, eyes the only bit of him expressing anything.

This time, the sadness and guilt has nothing to do with her, and she's surprised to learn it breaks her even more.

And in there, she can read something, a bit of hope, and she leaps at it. "It wasn't your fault."

"Really?" he asks, suddenly animated - he paces and shakes his head. "Thanks, Olivia, I really needed to hear that. My mother killing herself wasn't my fault." He pauses and stills and his eyes are blazing when they meet hers once again. "It absolutely was my fault, and you can't stand there and seriously suggest that all the shit Walter did had no effect on her."

"Stuff _Walter_ did, Peter, not you."

"Right," he scoffs.

Silence hangs beside the anvils in the air. Olivia tries to figure out what to say next, or do - if she should just leave or keep going. She knows how she'd react, knows she'd say the same things even though her mother died under different circumstances. She easily takes any blame if only to shield Rachel, is used to the world resting on her shoulders. But as she watches Peter stalk the living room, she realizes he's been carrying the brunt of the guilt over his mother's death for most of his life - quick math, and she notes his mother's been dead as long as she was alive and in his life.

While she knows the whole story, sat across from Walter as he explained it all, admitted to the crime that started this whole war no one knows they're fighting, Peter's put it together over time. They fit like puzzle pieces shoved where they shouldn't go, bits close enough but not exact, edges of the cardboard split and folded.

Olivia walks up to him and grasps his arms, sliding her hands down until she's gripping his forearms, hanging limp at his sides. "She loved you enough to keep you here."

He shakes his head. "Not me. It was never about _me_."

_That__'__s__enough_, she thinks. There's no way, in one conversation, she'll be able to break through years of guilt. But she hopes she's made a crack, given him something to think about. And before she knows it, Olivia's standing on her tip-toes, leaning into him until their mouths are inches from each other, eyes meeting over the bridge of his nose.

"_This_ is about you," she whispers to him, the words imprinting on his lips. She waits a beat before leaning in and kissing him. And this isn't like the previous one, where she was simply thinking about going out to dinner, thinking about how much it ached to be away from him for a few hours of work, how she'd been thinking of him while changing only an hour earlier.

This kiss is different. If she could speak through it alone, she hopes he'll be able to catch the message. Olivia pours all her feelings - all that love, that luck, how much she needs _him_ - into him as she feels his arm come up behind her and grasp her waist, pulling her closer, another hand entangling itself in her loose hair, grasping her head and tilting it up. She feels like a girl, again, as she allows him to nearly lift her in order to deepen the kiss.

When he opens his mouth to her, she can _feel_ all the desperation pouring out of him, asking her if it's really true, if he really _isn__'__t_ guilty of the crime, if maybe _he_ matters, now, after twenty years of being here, of taking over this other boy's life.

She reaches up to thread her fingers through his hair, caught up in the sensation of being so close to him, and can feel his warmth even through their clothes. Her other hand grasps his neck - his pulse races under her fingertips as she drinks him in, reassures him through contact, trying to remember who _she _is while caught up in his scent, his lips, his tongue as it catches hers.

Sometimes, she thinks she could die having experienced this.

Finally, her need to breathe takes over, and she breaks the kiss, nipping at his bottom lip before she lands back on her feet, heels regretfully hitting the floor.

"I'm thinking we could forget about dinner," he quips. Olivia smiles and swats his shoulder, her stomach reminding her she skipped lunch.

"Dinner makes dessert better, doesn't it?"

Peter smiles, and she sees it reaches his eyes. He takes a step and slides his arm around her, fingers finding the gap between her shirt and slacks, and draws little circles on her bare skin that attempt to override her need for nourishment.

She can feel his breath tickle her ear before he even says, "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

Olivia sighs dramatically as they walk to the door, and as she passes him on the way out into the bleak winter night, she swears she hears him say thank you. He closes the door behind them, his face giving no indication of saying anything, but on their way to her car, his face, cast in moonlight, is all she needs to know she got through.


End file.
